viva la vida
by mapagkunwari
Summary: He doesn't turn to look back at her. The dusk bathes him in an orange glow, and suddenly the man of marble is nothing but a boy with a dying fire.


a/n: this became longer than i expected, so i may or may have not cut it up in to two parts? :,) anyway, it's been a while since i've tried my hand at some e/é; been a while since i've written anything at all on here!; so this is a nice little challenge. the chapter breaks are lyrics from the song _violet hill_ by coldplay. hope you enjoy this little indulgence of mine. x and o and all of that.

* * *

 **I.**

 _was a long and dark december_  
 _from the rooftops i remember_  
 _there was snow, white snow_

* * *

Enjolras' mother bursts in to tears when he walks through the doors. She immediately dotes on him, weeping over the prominent thinness of his cheeks and the angry bruises blossoming on his skin. His father, on the other hand, is less welcoming; he merely sees his only child in before retreating in to his study, wordlessly furious. Enjolras doesn't need to ask why.

The maids insist on bathing him, but he's no longer a child. He sends them on their way and locks himself in the all-too familiar bathroom before letting the warm water run. He had almost forgotten how opulent it all was: the lavender soap and lukewarm showers and ornamental plants.

He hadn't forgotten how much he loathed it.

Enjolras bathes quickly; just enough to wash out the dirt and grime that had built up from the couple of days he'd spent jailed; before changing in to the pair of clothes that, no doubt, one of the maids had set out. Without meaning to, he catches sight of his reflection in his closet mirror.

He wants to believe he doesn't look much different than the last time he'd been home. It was still the same blue eyes; same mop of golden curls; but there was a tiredness to it all now. It stretched beyond the signs of abuse from prison guards, and the obvious toll months of revolting had taken on his weight.

 _Defeated._ That's the word, Enjolras thinks with a sneer. Staring back at him is nothing but the defeated leader of the rebellion.

* * *

"What brings you here?"

"It's hard to find honest work nowadays." Éponine answers the Head house-maid, Lady Dubois. The latter nods solemnly. "With the uprising in Paris..." Lady Dubois says in a low voice. Éponine is able to hide her flinch, disguising her acknowledgement with a curt laugh. "Nasty business." she agrees quietly.

As they round the corner, Lady Dubois comes to a halt. "Master Enjolras." she greets, and Éponine starts in surprises.

She had only ever seen Enjolras at the head of the table of Musain's back room and rarely anywhere else. She'd heard, of course, that he was the son of rich blood, but she hadn't expected him to be _here_ , among the wicker furniture and wooden beams of the Montpellier mansion.

He's dressed in ill-fitting clothes but he still carries himself to his full height. When she'd been scourging on the streets, Éponine had only heard of rumors on what happened to the boys of the Les Amis de l'ABC. How they'd been thrown in to separate prisons and abused both physically and mentally. There had been bail for those who could pay, and it seemed that no matter how against the rebellion his parents were, they still pooled together all their resources and connections to get this child out.

"Lady Dubois." Enjolras responds before turning his gaze to Éponine. If he's surprised to see her, he doesn't show it. "She is an applicant for the household, monsieur." Lady Dubois says courteously. The woman gives Éponine a look, and Éponine folds in to a clumsy curtsy. "Monsieur." she mumbles. She keeps her head down, praying a silent prayer that Enjolras lets her through. He could say one word to Lady Dubois and she wouldn't be taken in. He could make it so that no household in Montpellier ever looked her way.

"Very well." is all Enjolras says, giving them one last nod before brusquely walking past them. Éponine exhales, relieved. "Takes your breath away, doesn't he?" Lady Dubois teases, misinterpreting Éponine's flushed expression. Éponine wants to correct her but figures that it's an easier explanation. She smiles abashedly, and Lady Dubois takes this as a cue to continue leading them down the hallway.

* * *

Without meaning to, Enjolras tunes in to Lady Dubois' morning reports to his mother. It had been around two weeks since she'd taken on Éponine, and by the sounds of it, the street gamine wasn't good for anything: she couldn't cook to save her life and didn't know how to work around the household. "She was so charming," Lady Dubois sighs on one particular morning. "I didn't know she'd be so... incompetent."

A muscle ticks in Enjolras's jaw, though it's hidden by the newspaper he's reading. Truth be told, he had stood by that corner even before he saw her; he was on his way to their library when he was stopped dead in his tracks by the familiar voice, the familiar laugh. He'd heard that rasp of a voice sweeping the corners of the Musain, the laughter bounce off the streets as it raced after Gavroche. He knew the sounds but hadn't quite remembered the face that came with it until she was there in front of him with Lady Dubois. In the flesh and no longer a ghost of yesterday.

In that moment, he had been tempted to speak out against her employment, but her words had echoed in his head - _it's hard to find honest work nowadays_ \- and the sharpness of her, more bone than actual skin, had held him back from being so petty. The past was bound to catch up with him; he just hadn't expected it to be in the form of _her_.

"Fire her, then." Madame Enjolras says snidely as she picks at her custard tart. Without meaning to, Enjolras speaks up. "Make her a still room maid," he says without looking up from what he's reading. "Let her be the one that gets sent out to the marketplace."

It's such an abrupt suggestion that both Lady Dubois and Madame Enjolras are struck dumb for a moment. "You know her?" Madame Enjolras asks incredulously. Enjolras can already feel where his mother wants to veer the topic to; already sense that the woman is considering calling in Éponine herself; so Enjolras puts up the most nonchalant front he can manage before answering.

"Knew of her." he says. It's not a lie. He had no relations to the shadow. He flips to another page. Madame Enjolras purses her lips, unconvinced, but grants her son the benefit of doubt nonetheless. "Lady Dubois." she says dismissively, to which the Head house-maid curtsies respectfully before leaving the room to mother and son.

Had it been a few years prior, the two would be talking animatedly. Enjolras had always found it easier to converse with his mother than his father, and he had snatched up the little moments he could talk freely with her; be it about her line of work or Enjolras's education, or how boring the latest party they'd been required to go to was. Times have changed, though. Enjolras feels her curious glare and he responds by keeping his cool.

The rest of breakfast goes by in silence.

* * *

 **II.**

 _clearly i remember  
_ _from the windows they were watching  
_ _while we froze down below_

* * *

Truth be told, Éponine had thought she was going to be sacked. She'd botched being a kitchen maid and a laundry maid and a parlour maid in a span of two weeks; she's ready to hit the streets once more when Lady Dubois gives her one last chance. "The still room is where we keep supplies of most everything," Lady Dubois explains. She gestures around the small room, and Éponine takes it all in: alcohol, cosmetics, medicine and ingredients. "Your job is to deliver when asked, and to also take trips to the marketplace."

The mention of a marketplace perks Éponine up. "You are not to buy anything for yourself out of the money we provide for shopping," Lady Dubois warns, seemingly sensing Éponine's sudden excitement. "If you wish to make a personal purchase, it is to come out of your pay. _Compris_?"

"Oui, oui," Éponine says, bobbing her head up and down. She flashes the Head house-maid a toothy grin. "When do I start?"

She's sent out that afternoon with one of the older between maids, and Lady Dubois is pleasantly surprised when they come back with everything she'd asked for but so much more change.

"Oh, that girl is a racket, she is!" the between maid gushes when Lady Dubois pulls her aside to ask them about their expedition. "You should've seen her this afternoon, Dubois. She just haggled her way through all the vendors. Why, if I didn't know her, I'd think she was a con!" Lady Dubois cackles along with the between maid, secretly pleased that the young girl she'd come to like isn't as hopeless as she'd initially judged.

In the back of her mind, she is nagged by how the young Enjolras knew Éponine would be so good at the task. Lady Dubois pushes the thought away and dismisses it as intuition.

* * *

It's mid-summer in August; a full month since Éponine has been employed at the Enjolras household; when the two run in to each other again. Enjolras briefly wonders why he hadn't happened on her sooner, but he figures that it's because he's always locked away in his room while Éponine is out and about with her work. He's temporarily thrown by the changes in her appearance.

Her dark mane of hair is more kept, and the once impoverished state of her has been smoothed out by three meals a day. She curtsies with much more grace and carries herself better. "Master Enjolras." she greets, and Enjolras notes that even the roughness in her voice has mellowed out. "Abandon the 'master'," Enjolras exhales. He finds it uncomfortable, coming from her. "Around the other maids, since you must. But when they aren't around, 'monsieur' or even just Enjolras will do."

"Monsieur Enjolras." she grants him, saying his name slowly. As if she were testing it out on her tongue. Enjolras nods appreciatively before making a move to walk past her. "Wait!" Éponine cries, and Enjolras freezes. The former looks a bit ashamed to have cried out so suddenly. "I wanted to thank you," she says quickly, her words practically tripping over each other. "Lady Dubois told me it was your suggestion, to put me in the still room, and I like to think I'm doing well there, and if you hadn't I might be -"

"There's no need to thank me." Enjolras interrupts. Out of formality, he finds himself keeping the conversation going. "Are you enjoying your work here?"

Éponine nods enthusiastically. "Everyone is so kind." she answers. "And it's comfortable, too, our quarters and our meals. I suppose anything's better than the streets."

It's such a small comment but it drags Enjolras under. He remembers the days leading up to La Marque's death. He remembers the rallies they held and the populace they'd appealed to; he remembers the night before the funeral, and how Inspector Javert barged in the Café Musain with several guardsmen. The Les Amis were outnumbered on their own turf. The Les Amis were all taken, the smallest of graces being that all of them were alive. The rebellion died that night.

It was not even given a fighting chance.

"Monsieur?"

The sound of Éponine's voice jolts him back to the present. He catches the flicker of guilt that passes her expression, so he shakes his head and tries to will away the ghosts that haunt him. "Be on your way." he commands stiffly. Without another word, Éponine curtsies and scampers away hurriedly.

She leaves Enjolras in the widest hallway of his home but he still feels as though he's suffocating.

* * *

"Take me with you."

Éponine raises an eyebrow and adjusts the basket on her arm. "I don't think I'm allowed to." she admits. Enjolras, who is standing in between her and the door, mimics her expression. "Who are you worried you'll get in to trouble with?" he asks, exasperated. There's a tinge of amusement to his voice and Éponine hates to admit that it softens her resolve. "I haven't left the house since I got here." he adds. "I'm bored out of my mind."

"I'm shopping for fish today." Éponine warns, but Enjolras is already pulling on his coat.

The two don't feel the need to fill the fifteen minute walk with small talk so they fall in to a comfortable lull of quiet. Éponine takes the opportunity to steal glances at Enjolras, trying to discern the revolution from the boy. She had only hung around the Les Amis for the sake of Marius, and instead ended up stuck with _this one._ The man of marble. "Is there something on my face?" he asks, annoyed, once they reach the mouth of the market. Éponine chuckles to herself. "A little dirt right there." she teases before ducking in to the throng of people, weaving through the masses of buyers.

Enjolras finds her moments later as she's negotiating over some herring. "There wasn't any dirt." he grumbles, still glancing at his reflection to prove her wrong. She throws her head back with laughter.

Éponine doesn't entirely appreciate the company. Having to make sure that Enjolras was beside or behind her every few minutes slows her considerably. Though she wants to be impatient, she finds it hard to snap at Enjolras with the obvious effect being out of the house has on him.

How ironic _,_ Éponine muses, that the most crowded of places is where Enjolras can finally breathe.

After charming the vegetable vendor in to giving her some of his spare spices, the two head home. Enjolras; ever the gentleman; insists on carrying the baskets of produce. "You're better at shopping than I took you for." he comments as he sifts through what she'd bought. "A thing or two you learn off the streets." she says, only to promptly regret it. A darkness seeps back in to Enjolras' eyes and the two walk on, the air heavy.

Enjolras only breaks the silence when the house comes in to view.

"Where were you then?"

Éponine falters. Enjolras stops, too, a few paces ahead of her. He doesn't turn to look back at her. The dusk bathes him in an orange glow, and suddenly the man of marble is nothing but a boy with a dying fire.

"Where were you," he repeats. "On the night that the guards came?" It's the first time he's brought up the unsuccessful June rebellion. Éponine, not wanting to break whatever spirit he has left, tries her best to be honest.

"I was right outside." she says wistfully. "I was out on the street, waiting for Marius because we were supposed to deliver a letter to Cosette. I saw the guards before they saw me. I suppose it was instinct, but - I ran. I could have warned you, or maybe I couldn't have, but all I know is that I ran. And I hid. And I listened on where I could on what they'd done to you lot, where they'd put you, when you'd be out..."

She trails off, watching Enjolras shift ever so slightly. He gives the smallest of nods and begins to walk again. Éponine half-jogs to fall in to step with him only to catch his haunted expression; the dream-like state he always went under when he remembered. When they get to the house, he hands her the basket and tells her to go on and deliver to Lady Dubois. The guilt at the pit of Éponine's stomach simmers delicately as she watches him retreat.

* * *

 **III.**

 _when the future's architecture_  
 _by a carnival of idiots on show_  
 _you'd better lie low_

* * *

The wooden chair flies past Enjolras, narrowly missing his face by inches. It crashes in to the wall and splinters; the pieces fly apart and smash in to his back, and it's only then that he flinches. The resounding crash sounds too much like a gun shot. His father mistakes his wince for guilt and preys on him for it.

"You will not talk of King Louis-Philippe the way that you did earlier under this roof, under any circumstance. Do you understand?" his father seethes. Enjolras doesn't answer.

Dinner had started out as a quiet ordeal, with neighbors over for the first time in months. Enjolras's parents succeeded in veering the topic away from politics as much as possible until dessert was served, and the Prevosts had to deliver the pièce de résistance of their own by asking Enjolras on his opinion on the monarchy. Needless to say, they got more than they bargained for.

"I don't remember raising a son that was mute." Enjolras's father prompts, to which Enjolras dryly responds "Funny, because I don't recall you raising me at all."

The comment is an off-hand one, but it garners another object thrown at him. Enjolras's father had always been a violent man behind closed doors; somehow, his son inherited the trait, albeit the latter was better at suppressing it. The second object is a wooden table clock and, this time, it hits the younger Enjolras square in the shoulder. He reels back from the force and involuntarily hisses in pain.

"I did not spend good money to get a disrespectful child out of jail," Monsieur Enjolras announces. "You will either heed by my wishes or I will throw you out to the streets to rot. If it weren't for your mother, you ungrateful little -"

"No need to launch in to the whole tirade, father. We're a bit too old for that, aren't we?" Enjolras says hollowly. The pain is beginning to stretch to his arm, and though he is tempted to hold himself up, Enjolras stands as straight as he can manage. "The Prevosts addressed me directly. You would have called me disrespectful nonetheless if I had not responded."

Monsieur Enjolras bears his teeth, the vein in his neck throbbing far too much for comfort. As much as Enjolras disliked his father, he didn't want to be the reason for the man's heart attack.

"I'll keep myself in check." Enjolras sneers. His father, in turn, collapses tiredly in to his chair and turns away from Enjolras; anger took a lot out of the man. There's no command to leave or utterance of excusing oneself. Enjolras walks right out of his father's study, leaving the wreckage of their relationship to the semblance of regret that always comes after their arguments.

* * *

When the nursemaid had asked Éponine if she was 'sick to the stomach at the sight of blood', Éponine hadn't thought much of it; not until the nursemaid asked for fresh bandages to be delivered specifically to a room instead of to their quarters. With poorly concealed surprise, Éponine had to stand over and watch the nursemaid try to tend to Enjolras's shoulder.

A nasty scrape contrasts Enjolras's pale skin, blossoming and discoloring to provide an almost ghastly sight. The nursemaid doesn't let on, but by the way her fingers tremble and the manner of which she holds her breath, Éponine figures that the young girl is faint-hearted in the face of the injury. "If Master Enjolras will permit," Éponine calls out courteously. "I would finish dressing his wound."

"Please." Enjolras grunts. The nursemaid apologizes profusely before curtsying hastily. On her way out, she shoots Éponine an appreciative look. Éponine sets down her materials once the nursemaid is gone before leaning closer to inspect the bruise. "What happened to you?" she wonders aloud, daring to run her fingers over the dried blood on his bandage. Enjolras grimaces ever so slightly. "Another rebellion I'll never win." he responds, managing to sound cynical and nostalgic in one breath.

Éponine doesn't press any further.

She knows a bit about bandages and injuries. _Father would force Azelma and I to hurt ourselves, to look more pitiful,_ Éponine wants to tell Enjolras as she gently changes the bandages. _Afterwards, we would try and heal each other to the best of our abilities. We had none of these fancy medicines or clean bandages. Just cloth and rusty water._ She doesn't say a thing, though, because her presence always seems to unearth another memory from the barricade that never was. Hearing about her plight would only probably remind him of the people he was desperate to fight for, the ones he was willing to flood the streets for.

"There." she breathes, taking a step back to admire her handiwork. "You're much more... _precise_ than the nursemaid." he compliments, stretching his good shoulder. A lopsided smile breaks out on Éponine's face.

"Thank you." they say at the same time. "That will be all." he says before Éponine can say anything else. Éponine curtsies and gathers her things, only to be called back when she's halfway out the door.

"You should be the one to tend to this until it heals. The nursemaid doesn't seem to enjoy this task."

"Yes, Master Enjolras."

Enjolras's eyebrows furrow. "It's a request," he mutters. "Not a command."

* * *

Autumn creeps in slowly, then all at once. What warmth that the August summer had promised fades in to the mild October sun, bathing provincial France in velvet sunshine and rotting leaves. Enjolras had never been one to stop and smell the roses; he had always ever thought himself to be a man of singular ambition, and that was to overthrow the obstacle. Still, now, away from the war zone, Enjolras is somewhat obliged to admire life beyond his cause.

Éponine, without meaning to, helps him.

It begins with the market place trips. When he catches her, he accompanies her, and she shows him how to haggle, the little tips and tricks on one-upping the vendors. She admires the gaudy jewelry and revels in the fresh produce. She drags him along, and he finds himself cajoling merchants and peddlers to the point that they are practically throwing free trinkets at his feet. _It's your damned looks_ , Éponine would chide, the ghost of a grin splayed on her lips. _You are too charming for your own good._

He talks to her about politics. She tells him of how living on the streets look like. They share bits and pieces of themselves to each other, never daring to go as far as to talk about the revolution. As the weeks go by and their trips become more frequent, they walk slower on their way home because she says she likes the way the leaves look; on one particular trip, she forces him to stay by her side for a good amount of time and watch the wind pull away the decaying leaves of a tree.

"This is quite depressing." Enjolras says restlessly, unable to see what fascinates Éponine so much. "Really?" she hums. She takes no offense but instead cocks her head to one side to look up at him curiously. "I think it moves like a painting."

"Painting's don't _move._ "

"You're missing the point," Éponine says laughingly, bitingly. She gestures around them. "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.¹"

"Everything is dying." Enjolras deadpans. In the back of his head, he can hear the Les Amis. _Why must you take art so literally_ , Jehan would most probably ask indignantly. _What fine marble,_ Grantaire would have jeered. _I think I'm getting allergies_ , Joly might have complained.

Enjolras starts when he feels Éponine's fingers on his wrist. "You're doing it again." she says softly. Enjolras shakes his head to clear his thoughts, knowing what she means by 'it'; she had pointed out once before, delicately, that every now and then something would bring Enjolras back to June. He had asked her to ground him every time she caught him in his one of his moods.

It had been an ironic request at first, but when Éponine began to point out every time he did it, Enjolras began to see that it wasn't an occasional thing. It happened often and it was triggered by the most random of things. It was as if Enjolras lived with one foot in the present, and the other was stuck in quicksand-like material of the past. Every move in the present just had him sinking deeper and deeper and deeper.

"Sorry." he sighs. Éponine pulls away and the skin where she pressed her fingers feels like it's burning.

In an attempt to distract himself, he turns back to the tree. "It's beautiful." he says stiffly. Éponine chuckles. "You don't have to lie, monsieur." He glances down at her a for a moment and watches her watch the trees, the autumn wind blowing the leaves in all their gold glory in their direction. They stick in her air and brush past her face and yet she stands, uncharacteristically serene, paying attention to nothing but the dying tree.

Enjolras tears his gaze away.

"It's beautiful." he repeats. This time, he means it.

* * *

 **IV.**

 _was a long and dark december  
when the banks became cathedrals  
and a fox became God_

* * *

The maids think it's peculiar, but it's not their place to ask. They talk about it in whispers instead: Master Enjolras has taken to the new still maid. They are with each other often, out at the market place or the gardens or the library. He calls for her often. Though still maid is her title, she is regarded a little higher; she is, after all, the only one the young Enjolras seems to seek out constantly.

Lady Dubois, no longer able to conceal her curiosity, decides to ask one October evening. She is in the pantry with Éponine, sorting through their products, when she asks as innocently as she can: "Had you known Master Enjolras prior to your employment?"

Éponine, who is turning bread over in her hands to see if there's molding, pauses and looks thoughtful. "No," she says after a moment. "I did not know him at all."

The answer underwhelms Lady Dubois; how else would the master open up so suddenly to a stranger?; but she presses nonetheless. "And now? What do you think of him?"

There's another pause. Lady Dubois, whose back had been turned to Éponine, turns to look over her shoulder to catch the smallest of smiles on the younger girl's face right as she attempts to conceal it. "He is not anything you would expect." Éponine answers, and Lady Dubois grins a little herself.

* * *

"Where is your brother?"

Éponine looks up at Enjolras with mild surprise. The two are out on the garden, splayed underneath the last moments of heat before winter rolls in. Enjolras is pulling at the grass while Éponine is making a chain of the common daisies.

"Gavroche?"

"He is your brother, correct?"

Éponine lets out a snort, setting aside her daisy chain to start on a new one. "He is back home in Paris." she tells him. "I couldn't bring him with me. I send him part of my pay every month - he knows to come collect on the same day, at the same place."

"And your parents?"

The question turns Éponine's expression to stone. "Dead, hopefully." she says under her breath. She doesn't mean it, of course, but Enjolras is jolted nonetheless. The silence that follows is pregnant; teetering between awkward and understanding; only to be interrupted by Enjolras. He falls backward on to the grass, raising an arm to shield his eyes from the noonday sun. Éponine looks down on him, amused, as he lazily adjusts himself so that his expression isn't visible. It's when he speaks that she realizes why.

"The nights leading up to the death of La Marque," he begins slowly. "I had nightmares."

Éponine pauses from her menial task to try and comprehend what Enjolras is saying. It's only the second time he's brought up the revolution, and she can feel him tensing already. "What kind of nightmares?" she manages to ask, trying to go about her daisy chain even as her fingertips began to quiver. Enjolras is silent for a heartbeat or so before replying.

"Red." he answers simply. "The streets flooded with blood and death. All my friends gone except me."

"Are you glad it never happened?" The question is past Éponine's lips before she can think about it. She wants to apologize; wants to regret; but it's too late. It's out there. The air begins to feel like ice as Enjolras shifts, sitting up to brush the grass from his knees. His expression is unreadable. It is only Éponine's resolve that prevents her from taking back what she'd asked; her stubbornness that remains hopeful that he will say yes.

"I am glad that none of my friends are dead." he seems to decide. When he turns to look at Éponine, the sadness in his eyes makes the breath in her throat hitch.

"But I would bleed out for my country, rebellion or not."

* * *

It is the coldest night of Autumn when he caves.

Monsieur Enjolras grumbles complaints but does nothing; Madame Enjolras attempts, only to come out in tears. The maids steer clear but gossip about it over their work; they wonder what triggered it. It has been a while, after all, since he's been like this.

Lady Dubois shakes Éponine awake. "I'm sorry to wake you. I know you're tired from a long day's work," the woman tersely tells a groggy Éponine. "But you are the only one in the house that I think may make a difference."

Éponine follows the loud sounds, and they lead her to his room. She sweeps her lamp around the hallway and the maids who had been standing watch scuttle away like street rats. The otherwise calm evening is ripped apart by the crashes coming from his locked quarters; every now and then, the walls shake from the force. Éponine steels her nerves and raps on the door. No one responds from the inside. "Monsieur?" she calls out, knocking once more. "It's me."

The sound of Enjolras's muffled voice comes from the inside. "Please leave." he says, eerily calm.

Despite herself, Éponine rolls her eyes. She sits on the floor and leans her back against Enjolras's door. "I didn't think dealing with the tantrums of bourgeois boys was part of my job." she taunts. It's only the tip of the iceberg of her prepared cutthroat, but it's enough; the doors swing open and Éponine gets to her feet to face him.

He has no tears. Instead, his eyes are wild; there is no passion, just pure rage. He towers over her with his jaw clenched, and Éponine recoils without meaning to. She had seen this brand of anger before; had stared murderous rage like his in her own father.

Enjolras notices. Enjolras realizes.

He runs his hands over his face. He doesn't apologize, thankfully. Instead, he stalks back in to his room, leaving the door wide open. An invitation. Éponine doesn't take him up on it just yet; from the hallway, she does damage control.

Torn books are strewn across the floor. Some furniture have splintered. One part of the wall seems to have been punched repeatedly; there's a hole the size of a fist breaking past the wood and the wallpaper, letting in the chill.

"Does it scare you?" Enjolras asks quietly. Pulling her lamp in to the dark room, Éponine sees his figure slumped over at the foot of his bed.

Cautiously, Éponine steps in to the room. She walks around the wreckage and moves to Enjolras's side. She casts the light down on him and he squints up at her, managing to look irritated in spite it all. "I've seen worse." she says cheekily, and her answer seems to shock him sufficiently.

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of him. Éponine takes his as her cue to sit next to him, setting the lamp between them as Enjolras's chuckles die down.

"There was a rat."

"That's an awful lot of missed attempts to get a rat."

"Merde, not that." Enjolras sighs heavily. Éponine, in turn, flashes him a smile. "Just tryin' to lighten the mood." she says, and some of the tenseness in Enjolras's shoulders give way.

"There was a rat, in the revolution," Enjolras mumbles bitterly. Surprised, Éponine turns to him. The sadness outweighs his resentment, it seems, as he refuses to meet Éponine's eyes. "How else could Javert have known? Someone from the Les Amis told and it's driving me mad, guessing which of the boys it could be. Grantaire? Marius?"

"You shouldn't do that to yourself. Or them." Éponine jumps in, Marius's name bringing up her walls. Enjolras shakes his head, visibly incredulous at her defensiveness over the boy, but he lets it pass. "We were supposed to win." he says wretchedly. "Even if we weren't, we were supposed to at least _try._ "

Enjolras does not tear up. Instead, he lashes out, taking hold of the nearest discarded book and hurling it across the room. The scream comes out of him right after. He balls his hands in to fists and begins to slam his knuckles against the floor, each punch coupled with a howl of frustration.

Helpless, Éponine reaches out to put an arm over Enjolras's shoulders and attempts to hold him down. "Enjolras. _Enjolras._ " she says desperately over each wail and each slam. "Enjolras, it's _over._ " The three words seem to take out the fight in him; she repeats them over and over, as much as she hates to, until he's calmed down. He collapses in to her, exhausted, and Éponine gently pulls away to hold his wrists in her hands. She waits until he is looking her in the eyes.

Defeated. There is no other way to describe him.

"Enjolras," she says softly. "It's over."

Quietly, he begins to weep, and all his marble breaks.

* * *

¹ **"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."** is an oscar wilde quote from _lady windermere's fan._ if i could, i would have ep quote him, but oscar isn't born until years after the revolution; and it will take a little while after that for him to conceive the line. nonetheless, it's beautiful, and oscar deserves all the credit.


End file.
